


Coarse woody debris

by lovestillaround



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 18:55:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15419415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovestillaround/pseuds/lovestillaround
Summary: fallen dead trees and other plants





	Coarse woody debris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PhilTrashNo164](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhilTrashNo164/gifts).



> happy birthday, Amy <3

  
The tree that Chris used to visit is dead. It was struck by lightning, and is now split in two – the root is still in its original place, and the rest of the tree has fallen. Alright, there’s actually hundreds of pieces everywhere – branches lying at a distance of maybe even thirty feet, flakes of bark because apparently it’s common for a tree to get stripped by the lightning. The ground is covered in a pile of mostly brown leaves, equally dead.   
  
The trunk is generally half-okay, half-burned. It doesn’t even look that bad but the truth is that it won’t show any signs of life, it won’t grow anymore, it’s just nothing. It even stinks a little when you come closer.   
  
Chris imagines how it might have looked like in the moment of destruction, how bright the lightning was when it hit the tree, what was its trajectory. He wonders how loud it was, if there was a strong wind or rain, and how long it took for the tree to fall.   
  
It must have been beautiful.   
  
It must have been mesmerising, and scary, and powerful, but now the tree is dead. Chris thinks that it’s sad but then he realises that his thoughts are actually quite egoistic. He doesn’t care about the tree. He only thinks that he would miss coming here and sitting on its branches, eating apples that he used to bring with him, looking at the horizon of fields. Listening to birds, getting almost blinded by the sunlight on rare occasions because of course he won’t be wearing any sunglasses. Bugs crawling up his ankles and wiping the sweat off of his forehead when the day was particularly hot.   
  
*   
  
“I bought you flowers.”   
  
Dan is in the living room, holding a bouquet of flowers, and Phil knows that he should get up from the couch, it’s the only appropriate thing to just get up and take them and say _thank you_ but instead he doesn’t move and stares at the flowers in Dan’s hand. He doesn’t recognise any of them by the name except for the baby pink roses.   
  
He gets up eventually, saying aww because yes, Dan buying him things still makes him emotional after all these years. He just doesn’t always know how to express it.   
  
“What are these?” he says, pointing at one of the blue flowers with his finger, maybe because he’s always curious about things, maybe because he sometimes starts to babble when he’s surprised. He’ll thank Dan later.   
  
Dan gives him a look telling you’re such a weirdo. Phil knows this expression perfectly, and he knows that Dan will answer eventually, even if he thinks that the question is odd. “These are asters, I think. If I remember correctly,” he says putting his weight on the other foot, and Phil wonders whether he’s impatient or just tired.   
  
“And these?” This time his finger lands on a white flower, bigger than the rest. At this point he’s being plain annoying but the truth is that Dan holding a bouquet of flowers is a nice picture to look at, and he wants to indulge himself a little while he still has a chance.   
  
“I don’t know, you can google that,” Dan says, his voice getting higher and somehow stronger. “Also, you are supposed to be the botanist in this household,” he adds. Some of the curls that usually rest against his forehead are now damp from sweat, and Phil reaches out to touch them, not the flowers.   
  
“Okay, you can take them now, you know,” Dan says, quieter this time, but staying still and letting Phil run his hand through his har. He even looks like he might be enjoying it a little.   
  
Phil takes a step closer, careful not to crush the bouquet between them. He doesn’t even know why it seems to be necessary in this moment to be closer, when he isn’t even going for a kiss.   
  
“I was looking at you, and I forgot about the flowers for a moment,” he says, smiling because he can’t keep pretending to be serious anymore. He isn’t good at playing the role of a charming seducer, and they both know it.   
  
“Shitty excuse, mate,” Dan replies but his expression says something totally different.   
  
*   
  
“I found it. It’s gerbera,” Phil announces to Dan from the other end of the couch. Dan looks like he’s caught up in something on his laptop, like he doesn’t really care about the name of some random plant because there are bigger things in the world and on his mind right now, and Phil’s obsessive need to find out how this blue flower is called is inexplicable. It is, maybe, but they share a lot of little things, without any purpose.     
  
“That’s a weird name.”   
  
“That’s your mum’s name.”   
  
Dan looks up this time and turns his head to look at Phil, and then they both make this specific kinda-owl sound that is just theirs. Some things always stay the same.   
  
*   
  
“Do you know how this bouquet was called?”   
  
“Hmm?”   
  
“For him.”   
  
It sounds weirdly intimate, maybe because it’s night and they’re lying in bed, because it’s dark and they are so close to each other. The way Dan says it makes it sound like it was a secret that he can only reveal now, when the majority of the England’s population is probably sleeping.   
  
“But I asked to add some purple and pink flowers because originally it was all blue and white,” he adds, and Phil wishes he could see his face better so he shifts closer, but it doesn’t really do anything.   
  
“I don’t associate you with blue that much,” Dan continues, and Phil wonders if he’s been thinking about it a lot. It’s more a Phil-thing, to connect people with some colours and random stuff in his mind.   
  
“Am I more of a pink person?” he asks, with easily recognisable curiosity in his voice. It takes a moment before he hears an answer.   
  
“I associate you with… I don’t know, I asked the florist to add something because it would be unfair to not have a variety of flowers to give you, because in my mind, I connect you with a bunch of things, not just one specific item.”   
  
“I asked about a colour.”   
  
Dan snorts in response, and Phil imagines that his eyes say _shut up_ , in a very fond way.   
  
*   
  
The tree is still there after a year. Chris doesn’t even know what he’s expected. The tree is there, and its corpse on the ground is now greener than ever, covered in moss. Apparently, it’s useful in some way – it provides nutrients and habitat for many organisms, at least according to Wikipedia.   
  
He’s strangely proud of doing his little research, and of visiting this place again, and he’s even proud of the dead tree for doing such a good job at just lying there and thriving. It seems a little too gross to sit on a green log covered in some weird mushrooms so he pats it and walks away.   
  
Not home, but somewhere he’s never been to. If he doesn’t find a good tree to sit on, he’ll just walk.   
  



End file.
